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The Year of the Rat
The evenings came and went, but I did not.
I didn’t have what I needed. I needed air
in my tires. I needed to go to the store.
I didn’t have enough money. I ate sleeves
of saltines dripped with hot sauce.
I ate a potato microwaved with cheese.
The dishes all piled up like a sidewalk
memorial. I didn’t like to walk past them.
It was another warm winter. Squirrels gathered.
The mailbox received. Ivy lurched
into the sidewalk toilfully, but I did not.
And every day was another day I didn’t do it.
Daylight receded like a bad dream.
The one where your teeth fall out
like twisted kernels of corn
and you wake up ashamed
and glad you are alone.
I couldn’t open my mail.
Stacks of envelopes with cellophane panes.
Who told them my name?
I was a rat and I lived like a rat.
I slept on old laundry. I ate what I found.
My torso covered over with dry, red scales.
I was afraid I’d be discovered.
I avoided bright open spaces.
I avoided ammonia. I was afraid
someone was coming for me,
but then they didn’t.
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Maria Martin is a poet living in North Charleston, SC where she works for the city coordinating arts enrichment programs for public schools. Her poems have appeared in Poet Lore, Diagram, Pleiades, and elsewhere.
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Whew! The dishes all piled up like a sidewalk memorial— that’s the brilliant signal line for me in this poem as etching.
Posted by: Beth Joselow | June 23, 2024 at 09:59 AM
poems of disclosure are the bravest and best
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | June 23, 2024 at 10:51 AM
What an amazingly poignant and well-crafted poem, Maria. The short, terse lines are perfect for conveying the ennui and neglect. Like Beth's comment above, the metaphor of dishes piled up like a sidewalk memorial jumped out at me, as did so many other lines. The details here, especially of the foods that were consumed, are stark, vivid, and heartbreaking. You did a great job of striking the right tone throughout the poem, and I should also point out that the title of the poem is so appropriate to the contents. Thank you for sharing this sad but beautiful poem, Maria, and thank you, Terence for posting it. (And, as always, the artwork is stunning and makes a great complement to a great poem.)
Posted by: Cindy Hochman | June 23, 2024 at 10:56 AM
Cindy---thanks for your comment.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 23, 2024 at 10:59 AM
We fellow procrastinators all applaud this line, our postponed motto:
"And every day was another day I didn’t do it. "
Brilliant revelatory poem, and sure now, I can relate!
Thanks!
Posted by: Bill Nevins | June 23, 2024 at 11:08 AM
judging from the comments,, a lot of us know what this kind of giving in to giving up feels like, i sure do, but how many of us can express that loss of control with such control (the line breaks alone), brilliant is the word fo[r sure (and mage).
Posted by: lally | June 23, 2024 at 11:42 AM
I didn’t tell them your name! But now they will know it. <3
Posted by: Camela | June 23, 2024 at 11:50 AM
❤️❤️ this
Posted by: Jose Padua | June 23, 2024 at 12:03 PM
The finality of the last line — a goner!
Posted by: Victoria | June 23, 2024 at 12:07 PM
My goodness what a narrative this is, turning in the closing lines into a kind of surprising horror while in the early phases staying so amazingly attentive to basics, in a steady remarkably clear stream. I read this and immediately read it two more times, wondering how Maria had managed to make something so striking. I still don't know, which makes the poem ever more compelling. Terence I'm so glad you found this one for us, and Maria, I'm thrilled that I got to find your poem here and will definitely look for more you've written. I try writing the kind of "matter-of-fact" narrative that this poem is for the first three quarters or so. I can learn from what you've done here! Remarkable poem!
Posted by: Don Berger | June 23, 2024 at 12:33 PM
So much of this beautiful poem feels like a memory from my own life. Thank you for sharing!
Posted by: Ricks | June 23, 2024 at 12:46 PM
I really like this.
I used to have that dream where your teeth fall out, then someone told me what it means. I haven't had it since . . .
Posted by: Martin Stannard | June 23, 2024 at 01:21 PM
Brava, Maria! I've been a fan for years. Now I'll have lots of company.
Posted by: Susan Finch Stevens | June 23, 2024 at 01:51 PM
Great comment---thanks, Don
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 23, 2024 at 01:55 PM
Strong and revealing poem. I love it and can definitely relate to it.
Posted by: Eileen Reich | June 23, 2024 at 04:30 PM
Love this poem! Really captures a certain kind of despair/ ennui. I am so looking forward to reading more by this poet. Thanks for posting another brilliant poem, Terrence.
Posted by: Nin | June 24, 2024 at 07:02 AM
Nin: Thanks for that comment.
Posted by: Terence Winch | June 24, 2024 at 09:16 AM
Iambic Pentameter Impressionism...
Posted by: Rob Billingsley | June 25, 2024 at 07:09 AM
Nice poem. Creepy image.
Posted by: susan campbell | June 25, 2024 at 12:55 PM